The Perfect Stranger

He’s coerced into flying her cargo out of the jungle… until he learns what it is.

J. Jackson Briggs’s Smithson Group gig wasn’t supposed to be dangerous, but the woman who drugs him then knocks him out, then drugs him again certainly is. She also may or may not be a nun. She’s definitely a lying, scheming, lethally gorgeous… American. Jack’s not buying the story Jillian Endicott gives him about her noble cause in the sweltering wilds of San Torisco, but he knows one thing: he’ll get the truth—and plenty more—from her, one way or another.

Being an Endicott of the Boston Endicotts taught Jillian plenty about the haves vs. the have-nots and made it easy to choose sides. But there’s nothing easy about her mission in San Torisco, and things only get harder when Jack Briggs is thrown into the mix. Six-foot-three of big Texas mouth and big… other things.

Jack’s pegged her as a bored little rich girl. He can think what he wants, as long as he does what she wants. Jack pushes her buttons from the get-go—and the closer he gets to pushing her over the edge, the more she wants him to. Now under the velvet cover of jungle nights, two rebels with a cause are going deep—and falling hard—for the perfect stranger.

“If you like your suspense intensely dangerous, and your romance gritty and sharp, you will love THE PERFECT STRANGER.” — Laurie D.

“As always Ms. Kent has penned another great SG-5 thriller that will engage the reader from the first word.” — Kristi A.

“Since I’m a recovering mystery/detective/espionage reader, I enjoy the merging of the romance and military/thriller angle…” — Sleepless in CS

Tequila and Mickey Finn.

A hell of a bachelor party guest list.

A jackhammer morning-after headache.

José Cuervo might be a sumbitch, but the bottle didn’t deserve the blame for the hangover that had Jackson Briggs pressing the heels of his palms to his eye sockets.

His spinning head was all about waking on a cold, concrete prison floor, an AK-47 five inches from his nose jumpstarting his day with a jolt.

The stumbling trip he’d taken at gunpoint—from his cell, down a dark corridor, into a military command center—had added the tang of terror to his nausea.

And now here he was, stuck holding his tongue because he wasn’t so backwater that he didn’t know not to piss off his host country.

He didn’t care that the charity-based Smithson Engineering crew had just signed on for another back-breaking, year-long stint in the jungles of San Torisco.

He didn’t care that the contentious nature of the military dictatorship characterized a nation on the brink of disaster.

He didn’t care that he was the only chopper pilot on site. He was ready to go home. To the States. And as soon as he was outta here, he was outta here. It couldn’t happen soon enough.

Irritation spilled down his back along with his body’s physical response to San Torisco’s tropical climate. Ninety-eight percent humidity and a new sheen of sweat drenched his khaki shirt.

He didn’t want to know what had dried in his hair, matting it in a crust to his skull. He didn’t want to know what constituted the brown stains on his green fatigues. He especially didn’t want to consider when or how his boot laces had been chewed through. All he wanted was out.

The coat of puke green paint slapped across the floor in El Comandante’s headquarters did little for his mood. Rocked back on two legs of a rickety chair, he eyed the machine gun five feet away on the battered metal desk. The additional distance gave the weapon a new perspective, one no less menacing.

From here, however, he could see the eyes of the uniformed man behind it. They were as cold as the floor he had slept on, as black as the darkness summoning him down.

He refused to look at the woman sitting in the chair three feet from his side.

Twisting the tight gold band around his left ring finger, Jack released a sigh at odds with the chemical churning in his gut. The burn up his throat told him there’d been more in his glass than the shot of tequila he’d sloshed there sometime before midnight. His buddy’s bachelor party had been in full swing at the time, and Jack had been lucid, sober, and still the best man.

Six hours later he’d come awake to find himself a prisoner.

And the groom.